Now We Are Free
by GorimJr
Summary: A collection of drabbles and scribblings. Rarely, if ever canonical and largely centered around Brendan, Cellach, or both. Takes place in various universes and at various points in time.
1. Chapter 1

**Random dribblings, in the style of my friend's dribblings, Fifty Words for Kells, and another person's writings whose name I forget. It's called For the Love of Thor, and it's brilliant. Look at it. LOOOOOOOOOK. **

**These are rather disconnected from each other, and are often not canonical. Make of them what you will.**

**1. Hope**

A shocking sound made its way up to the old man's room, and for a moment, he couldn't believe his ears.

It was a glorious sound. It hadn't been _uncommon_ these days, but it had never really held the same meaning for him as it did at that moment.

It was a man's laugh, but not really. Because the Abbot could still hear _his _laugh there. It was deeper, but it was still him. Abandoned, joyous, half-smothered, as if he was trying not to be too loud and failing miserably. It would have been described as a giggle, if it wasn't a thirty year old man laughing.

The Abbot felt a chuckle escape him as the sound of Brendan's laughter echoed through the abbey, making a beacon of hope in the forest shine just a little bit brighter.

**2. Stick**

"So I'm the fairy princess, and you're the simple woodsman." Aisling explained. Brendan looked rather irritated.

"Why would a woodsman have a sword?" He asked pointedly. Aisling thought about it, then shrugged.

"I dunno. He just does. Why do I have to think of everything?" Brendan nodded, conceding the point.

"Fine. So, there's a princess and a woodsman..."

"And they go off to defeat the evil serpent king!" Aisling finished with a flourish. Brendan nodded, grinning broadly. He brandished his stick-sword, and the two charged off into woods with a roar.

**3. Frustration**

The Abbot sighed heavily, shooting a glare at Aidan as he did so. The older man pointed at himself, attempting to seem innocent.

The chair Brendan sat in every night as a rule was empty, just as it had been for several days straight. It was getting to the point that Leonardo and Assuoa, who sat on either side of him, no longer looked startled at the absence.

At that, the Abbot became certain that this had gone on long enough. He stood, politely excused himself, and walked out.

The Scriptorium was dark save for the desk farthest from the door. Brendan was hunched over, his tongue protruding from his mouth, as it had since he was a toddler whenever he was doing his absolute best. Under normal circumstances, Cellach would have been rather pleased at the dedication.

He walked up to the desk. Brendan made no indication that he heard his uncle approach. Even when the older man peered over to see his nephew's work, he didn't notice.

It was excellent. But that didn't change a thing.

"Brendan." The boy jumped, startled. He looked up, blinking furiously, then smiled in a way that would have been bright, if it wasn't for the utter exhaustion there.

"Oh! Hello, Unc-" As he spoke, Cellach walked around the desk, grabbed his nephew's wrist, and began dragging him out of the Scriptorium

The brothers looked up as Cellach stalked in, dragging a feebly protesting Brendan behind. Cellach placed Brendan firmly in the chair.

"You're going to eat this." He said in a tone that left no room for discussion. "After that, you're going to go to your room and sleep for a solid eight hours. Have I made myself clear?" Brendan nodded, his stomach growling deafeningly at the sight of the food. Satisfied, the Abbot sat back down at the table. He glanced again at Aidan, who was hiding a grin behind his hand.

"Don't blame _me, _Cellach-"

"I blame you."

**4. Castle**

If Brendan had to choose a place that he was most comfortable, he'd choose the Scriptorium.

Even before Aidan had guided him into the realm of imagination and ink, the Scriptorium had been a place of wonder for the little brother. The quiet scratching of quills belied the magic that happened there.

As he grew older, the downsides to the place began to make themselves known. The roof leaked; not anywhere that would ruin books, but it was irritating. The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, and the place was hot as hell during the warmer days of summer. And that was before the sacking. Afterwards, it took weeks to remake the roof and cover up the holes, and after that, every irritating attribute of the hall was made that much worse.

Brendan loved it.

**5. Immaturity**

The Abbot had never paid much attention to the goings on of the children. When novitiates came to Kells and joined Brendan as the youth of the abbey, the other monks (Leonardo, Aidan, or Tang usually) taught them what they needed to know and left the more important duties to Cellach.

So it came as a total shock to the man when he learned that they were all engaged in deadly warfare.

At some point in time, an insult had been passed between the village children and the novices and novitiates of the abbey. What it was and who said it was, in the way of things, long forgotten. But the outrage remained. Each season brought a new way to fight: with spring came mud, with summer came the hot blood and fist fights. As Brendan rarely, if ever was involved in those, Cellach allowed the other brothers to deal with the problem. Fall brought a lull in the war, as the children were all needed for harvest and readying the abbey for winter. When winter came, however, the war and bloodshed (such as it was) began right where it left off with widespread snowball fights. When Cellach asked Aidan about it, he was rather startled at the ruthless, efficient strategies the old man described both sides using: quickly claiming high ground, flanking, guerilla warfare, making walls out of snow... They even took hostages.

He tried to ignore it. Winter became spring, which was recognized by the mud stained robes and constant baths. Then summer came, and Cellach was forced to involve himself.

They tried to hide it from him, but children are never as quiet or sneaky as they think they are. He heard them talking about it long before they heard him approach. They were huddled around a rough map of the abbey that Brendan had drawn, whispering.

"We have to get him back. The Abbot'll kill us if they keep him much longer."

"Oh, they're probably doing horrific things to him."

"Poor Brendan. I hardly knew you..."

The Abbot stopped, eyebrows raised slightly in shock. They continued.

"We have to get him back. Look, if we go around this way..."

"They've got the twins there. Even if we could beat one, the other would sound the alarm."

"We could-" He stopped abruptly as the Abbot walked by. They waited tensely for the questioning, the interrigation, the _doom,_ but rather than even acknowledge their existence, he simply tapped a finger on a part of the map. The leader blinked, peered at the place the Abbot had pointed out, then whooped with delight.

"PLUMS! Oh, you're a genius!"

The Abbot bowed his head to hide the small grin.


	2. Chapter 2

**6. Boat**

The vessel was a beautiful thing. The prow was shaped in the form of a dragon, and several long, graceful oars dipped into the sea and pushed the ship onward into the sea, away from their homeland, towards the strange isles far off through the mist.

The captain was a large, strong Viking with bright blue eyes and blond hair. He stood at the helm, watching the shoreline recede. Maybe he would return, maybe he wouldn't. The land of his ancestry awaited his return, and Odin help whoever tried to keep him away.

For weeks, the storms lashed the ship, but it never strayed off-course. The captain and crew had taken this route many times before, and while each time brought a new worry that they may not return, there was never any worry that they'd get lost.

After a month of terrible storms and the slow depletion of their food stores, the second-mate approached and stood beside the captain at his customary place at the helm. A lovely, green coastline was emerging from the early morning mist.

"I've missed this place," he said rather wryly. The captain nodded. "You should hear the new ones talk about it. 'Where you pick gold like you pick eggs from nests.'"

"Not a bad analogy..." The captain said, his eyes never leaving the ever-approaching coastline. "We have poets aboard."

"I wonder if it's still the same." The captain glanced at his friend and grinned wolfishly.

"It's Ireland," he said. "It never changes."

**7. Brave**

The Abbot didn't see the Viking approach from behind him. He was too busy watching everything he'd worked so hard to protect crumble against the tide of the north like so much dust and sand.

The Abbot didn't hear the Viking approach either. The sound of screaming and flames and northern war cries drowned out everything else.

One moment he was desperately making his way towards the Scriptorium, his shoulder throbbing and his mind full of horrific images of his nephew burning, and the next he was on the ground, his blood pouring out of his body and a Viking standing over him, the broad sword in his hand dripping with blood.

A great crash echoed through the abbey, and both men looked over to the Scriptorium, where the doors had been battered down by the northmen.

The Viking raised his sword, readying the final blow. The Abbot frantically murmured prayers, for his nephew, for the people, for mercy from God for his mistakes-

The Viking roared, but the blow never came. Cellach looked up.

Clinging to the Viking's arm, kicking and biting and snarling like a feral cat, was Brendan.

**8. Tree**

The old man had to admit. It was a very big tree.

Brendan pointed up, straight up, his eyes sparkling with mischief and fun.

"They're up there, Uncle," he said, his face fairly solemn, but his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. "Do you still want to help me gather them?" There was a long silence, and then Cellach sighed and sat down slowly at the base of the oak.

"I'll stay here," he said. "So that when you fall down, someone will be here to get help." Brendan laughed, then climbed the tree very, very quickly. It reminded his uncle rather vividly of a squirrel.

Cellach sighed and shook his head.

_Young people._

**9. Magic**

It was beautiful. Surreal.

Aisling's eyes, which were very sharp eyes and very clear, flicked across the page. Every time they moved, they saw something new. Even if they went back to a place they'd already gazed upon, it was like new levels of art revealed themselves to her as they wished, like the longer she marveled, the more worthy she was of it all.

She saw Pangur and her kittens. Crom Cruach eating His own tail. Strange beasts from faraway lands. Men, women, children, and angels, all framed by some of the most beautiful knotwork she'd ever seen. The detail made it almost seem to shimmer, to _move._ It was alive. The detail made it seem so, and Brendan's painstaking labor of love made it so.

She finally pulled her gaze away, realizing as she did so that this was only one page. She still had a whole book to go.

Her awed green eyes met Brendan's amused blue ones.

For a long time, at least longer than she ever had been, she was speechless. Because _she'd _been in there, as an angel sitting on the branches of trees and peeking out from behind the knotwork. Without her eyes (or Crom's Eye), you wouldn't even see it. For a long time, she puzzled over what to say.

Finally, she asked, "Do you remember when I said you had no magic of your own, Brendan?"

"Before I went to fight Crom?" Brendan clarified. She nodded. "Yes, I do."

"I was wrong."

**10. Air**

Pangur thought in ways that seemed strange to others, even to Aidan and Aisling. In the early years of her companionship with Aidan, she decided that the then-young illuminator's element was water. Slow, gentle, with hidden currents that pull you and twist you around. He was steady. His force was a firm, but not especially violent sort.

Not like Cellach's.

Pangur Ban was instantly aware that Cellach was fire. He was the antithesis of Aidan. Fire was passionate, intense, and could be many things at once. It could be gentle and warm, like a candle or a campfire, one moment, and it could consume and entire forest the next. Sharp, fickle, uncontrollable.

Yet it relied on something implicitly.

Cellach relied on Brendan in a multitude of ways. Without Brendan, Cellach would sputter out. To Pangur, it was completely clear that sweet, unassuming Brendan was the fuel for Cellach's mad race against time with the walls.

Fire cannot be without air. Cellach could not be without Brendan.

When she and Brendan came back to Kells after decades of wandering, it became abundantly clear just how accurate Pangur had been...


End file.
